The Wayfarer
by pigbearman
Summary: The year is 1976. Voldemort and his followers are gaining strength and becoming increasingly violent. The Ministry of Magic has difficulties coping with the threat. A war is coming. Follow a messy Hit Wizard, a proper Auror, and an adventurer who becomes both a vigilante and a Professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in a tale of love, friendship and loss.
1. Homecoming of a Nomad

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, I am merely playing in Rowling's universe.**

**AN: This is a story I've been constructing for a while now. It comes with a plethora of original characters as well as some of Rowling's best, featuring the Ministry of Magic, Hogwarts and my take on a magical earth and its history. Enjoy.**

The sun was setting over the vast Arabian desert, painting the sky in orange and pink. It was quiet and so empty - the way only a desert can be. High above the rocky, desolate face of earth a large brown bird was sailing on the air currents. Its wings barely moved as it soared away from the sunset. There was something unusual about this bird - it wasn't an eagle, a hawk or a vulture, but an owl. It was clutching an envelope in its claws. The last sliver of a golden sun sunk beneath the horizon just as the owl began its spiraling descent toward a ragtag collection of dirty tents.

The large brown owl shot into one of the tents, startling the occupants, and dropped the letter directly at a checker-scarfed man with flyaway hair and an unruly beard. The three other men, white robed and mustached, ducked in instinct and cursed at the owl. Muttering angrily, the youngest stood up to shoo the bird away, but the disheveled man motioned for him to sit.

"You bring bad luck, Musaafir." said the young Bedouin, reclaiming his spot at the modest campfire.

"Ana asif." replied the scarfed man in a heavy English accent. Luckily the bird hasn't tipped the coffee pot over, else it would've been harder to make peace, he thought.

"Don't mind the bird, it's trained." he spoke in English this time, and the young man to his left translated. In a few moments the group calmed down and continued watching the pot.

"Shu hada?" asked the youngest, indicating the letter.

The Englishman turned the envelope in his calloused hands. It read:

To Mr. Bernard Roland Weir  
Arabia Magna

He stared at it for a moment, loosening the scarf around his neck idly. The crackling campfire was beginning to boil the coffee now and a strong aroma filled the air. For a long moment, Weir considered tossing the offending envelope into the fire. But he gave in to curiosity, and eventually tore one side of it open and slid a piece of parchment out. Written in plain black ink was a surprisingly short paragraph.

Mr. Bernard R. Weir,

I regret having to pass these news to you in this manner, but no other means could be found. It is with great sorrow that I must inform you of the passing of your younger brother, David A. Weir. Your family has not been included in the details of his death, as per them being non-magical. The circumstances and manner of his death are highly suspicious. Investigation is under way.

Signed,  
Reuel Marsh  
Secretary of Foreign Affairs  
Ministry of Magic

Weir read the letter two more times, each time his expression turning more dour. He couldn't believe it at first. Reuel Marsh? The Ministry stamp seemed genuine. "No, no, no..." he moaned at the parchment. The coffee boiled and was taken from the fire and onto the sand. The youngest Bedouin went to fetch four small glass cups.

Running a hand through his dirty-blond hair, Weir read the letter one last time. He has to go back to Britain. Oh, it would be a tedious journey. He couldn't decide between disbelief, anger and downright misery. His hand dropped the offending letter in the sand and he stared at the fire blankly.

"Shukran." he muttered, accepting a glass of pitch black coffee. He held it shakily. "No, no, no..."

Weir put the muddy coffee on the sand and said, "My brother is dead. I must leave, tonight."

"I am sorry." said the robed man to Weir's left, giving the owl a sharp look.

Weir stood up and dusted his jeans. The other men looked at him incredulously while he retrieved his backpack, a fleece coat and a wide brimmed leather hat. They all stood up, speaking Arabic in low tones, when at the end the youngest approached Weir with a stern look.

"Abduallah insists that as your host, he insures your safe passage to the city." he said, "I will go with you, we take the horses." he finished in a decided tone.

Weir was already shaking his head adamantly. "No," he said, "I-I'm thankful for the hospitality, but no."

"Take the horse, Ver, how do you walk three days to city?"

Weir bowed his head but said nothing.

He didn't have time to explain, nor the willpower at the moment. Weir would walk far enough and then apparate to the city and from there... he'd have to look for a portkey. Yes, that's the best plan, he decided.

Three minutes later he was striding out of the tent with his belongings in tow. Still he could not shake his host off, who kept demanding he take the horse. The Bedouin grabbed Weir's shoulder and turned him around.

"You are a man of honor, Zayed. Please, trust me, go back and do not look for me." said Weir, his blue eyes staring directly at those of the young Bedouin. For a moment they stared at one another. Zayed dropped his hand.

"Salam aleikum." said Weir.

"Aleikum al salam." replied Zayed in a stiff voice.

Weir walked in silence for twenty, sixty, one hundred paces. He stopped, reached up and placed the leather hat on his head, pulling the brim down with his other hand. He took one last look at the endless, dark desert and the starry sky, pulled a wand from inside his fleece coat and disappeared with a soft POP.

X

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has never been busier. Despite the early hour, almost every cubicle was occupied by its owner. People were reading files, clutching their coffees close and occasionally murmuring a greeting to a passing colleague. Others were discussing recent events in low tones, careful not to dispel the early morning atmosphere. Martin Speirs was pacing down a row of cubicles with a cup of coffee in one hand and a wand in the other, carefully stirring the aromatic beverage with a silent charm. He walked to the last cubicle on the left and stopped at the sight of a witch sleeping in an office chair, feet resting on top of a messy desktop.

Martin sighed, looking over the desk briefly. It was piled with numerous papers, bulging folders, discarded food wrappers and an official nameplate that read "Sage Winters". The witch was fast asleep, her arms crossed over a garish purple and brown sweater, a knitted indigo hat pulled just over her eyes. Martin always entertained the idea that she stole clothes from the homeless, although he never dared say that out loud.

"Sage. Sage, wake up, it's time for morning briefing." he said half-heartedly, slipping his wand into his coat pocket and starting to shake the witch awake.

"_Whaat_?" she grumbled, turning her body away from the intruder.

Martin pulled her wool hat off, revealing a scowling, pouting face. She murmured incoherently before finally managing to say "go away".

"Sage, fifteen minutes and you can go back to sleep, preferably in your own bed. Come on, working nights does not excuse you from morning briefing, you know Crouch." said Martin in a low voice. He felt a little bad having to be the one to wake her, after all he knew all too well the exhaustion after a night of paperwork.

She opened her eyes to slits and peered up at him with a pained expression.

"You brought me coffee- oh, that's so sweet of you."

"No, you can't guilt me that easily." he said, chuckling. The unruly witch sighed and dragged her booted feet off the desk. She rubbed sleep from her eyes, groaning.

"You'll have to cover for me-" she yawned, "I don-don't think I can pay attention to Crouch right now."

"Fine." he replied.

Sage grabbed a dark-green ministry issue coat in one hand and stalked after Martin to the briefing room, yawning and rubbing her eyes without pause.

A tall, bearded wizard in a brown coat came up to Martin and held his shoulder for a moment as they approached the briefing room.

"I've got a lead, Speirs - made some progress with a witness. I want you to look at the interview transcript. We'll be heading out later today to investigate." he said, shuffling a scroll of parchment at Martin.

The older Auror looked Martin over and said, "Did you finish the paperwork from yesterday?"

Martin nodded his confirmation.

"You just need to sign it, Sir- oh, and I've got the reports from Saint Mungo's, too."

"Hey," started Sage, yawned, and continued, "Morrison, can- can you fix me up for plain-clothes duty for a few- shifts, I keep getting the worst assignments." she said, stifling yawns.

"Why not." he replied gruffly, shrugging.

They stepped into the briefing room and sat at the second row of rickety chairs. The walls were adorned with maps, bulletin boards, work safety posters and the occasional news clipping. Slowly, the seats filled up and people remained standing in the back. If Martin had to guess, he'd say about a hundred witches and wizards were present. Aurors, Hit Wizards, Investigators, Curse Breakers and Trainees - the best of magical law enforcement. Minor security personnel were briefed separately by their supervisors.

Martin glanced behind his shoulder to find Sage fighting to stay awake in a chair right behind him.

Barty Crouch - a stiff, combed man in a suit walked in and the room quieted down. He made his way to the front and looked from person to person for a few moments. First he addressed the various division heads and they exchanged information Sage couldn't comprehend beyond "get shit done".

There were more and more disturbances all over wizarding Britain. It wasn't so much the direct doing of the Death Eaters but more so of their supporters and accomplices. But what was really getting bad is the attacks on muggles all over the damn country. The muggle authorities were briefed over the past few days, apparently. Security was going to be posted at the muggle ministry too. Of course, Sage hasn't heard any of this. This was the worst briefing ever.

At half past eight the room emptied and Martin had to nudge Sage awake. She was on auto-pilot now, heading to the elevator. Martin and his bearded supervisor started going over the witness transcripts.

X

A disheveled, checker-scarfed man appeared in the Foreign Affairs lobby, stumbling like someone not used to portkey travel. The young female secretary at the reception scowled at his appearance. His flyaway hair, sunburnt to a dirty-blond hue, probably hasn't been washed in days, no, weeks. And that wide-brimmed leather hat - "_wannabe adventurer_" she muttered. His old blue jeans and grey t-shirt were both dirt stained and sandy. _Ohh_, now he was trailing sand everywhere with those battered hiking boots. God, she didn't want to smell him.

The receptionist smiled in spite of herself.

"I'm looking for Reuel Marsh." he said in a somewhat hoarse voice. Weir wasn't sure what to do exactly. Part of him still hoped there's been some kind of mistake, miscommunication perhaps, anything... Should he go to Magical Law Enforcement? Saint Mungo's?

"Last door on the right." she motioned to a corridor, and Weir followed. Foreign Affairs was almost empty, he noted. Well, considering the time, he shouldn't have been surprised. It was seven twenty in the morning.

The past several hours were a nightmare. Having apparated to Petra, Weir searched for a wizard traveling office almost two hours. He had to travel to Jerusalem, and from there to Cairo, where he managed to buy a portkey pass for what he thought was an exorbitant amount of coin. It's been years since he used magic to get around and he was feeling exhausted.

Weir came to a stop in front of a heavy wooden door reading, "Reuel Marsh, Secretary of Foreign Affairs". He knocked, but there was no answer. Leaning back against the wall, he exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. Feeling like a brick, Weir slid down against the door and closed his eyes. For a moment, he felt a pang of shame, but opening his eyes felt so painful he decided to steal whatever sleep he could.

Half an hour later he was woken up by a loud cough. Weir opened his eyes to slits and looked up at a grey-suited, bald man scowling down at him. "Mister Marsh." he said in a hoarse voice, pushing himself up to his feet.

"Bernard Weir," he introduced himself, "I'm here about the letter-"

"Ah, yes, yes... Please, come in."

Marsh's office was the most ordinary office Weir has ever seen in his life. Three large filing cabinets stood by the door, a tall bookshelf on the other side, and in the middle of the room a clean wooden desk with two plush chairs. Weir sat down while Marsh fetched two stout glasses from the top of his bookshelf.

"It was difficult finding you, Mister Weir," he shook his head planting on the glasses on the wooden desk, "We never knew you left Mongolia- never mind... Your brother, he died seventeen days ago. I assure you, Crouch is pushing his department on this matter."

"Can you fill me in on the details?" said Weir, rubbing the side of his face tiredly.

"I'm afraid I am not privy to the machinations inside Magical Law Enforcement- but I will send a message and you will be briefed by the very Auror heading the investigation." Marsh said hastily, turning back to the bookshelf and reaching for a bottle filled with a golden liquid.

"He's really dead."

Marsh paused for a moment, somewhat at a loss. Marsh poured the golden liquid into the glasses gingerly and sank into his seat across from Weir. He sighed, pursed his lips and took a swig from the glass.

"I don't know if you've been following the news, Mister Weir, but things are... pretty shit here." he said, lowering his glass.

Weir sank a little lower in his chair and reached for his glass with what felt like a dead hand. Whiskey, strong and smoky, filled his nostrils. He took a generous sip, tasted it for a moment and then swallowed with a slight grimace.

"It's turning into a full-out war."

They spent five minutes sipping from their glasses in silence until Marsh took out a piece of parchment, scribbled something onto it and looked around the room. He clicked his tongue and a small grey owl pounced at the note, grabbed it and flew out through a momentary opening in Marsh's office door.

"Owls as inter-departmental messaging. I don't know who thought of that, but it's stupid. The cleaning budget alone isn't worth it." he commented.

"Ask for Auror Speirs." he added, and Weir was escorted out into the hall. He took the elevator to the second level and made his way to the reception. A group of tired wizards pushed passed him into the elevator, keen to get home after their night shifts.

"I'm looking for Auror Speirs." said Weir, leaning forward to get a look at the short wizard at the reception desk.

"HEY, SPEIRS!" he yelled at two conversing wizards who were slowly pacing to the elevators.

Weir muttered a thanks and looked over. A young, unshaven wizard with short dark hair was approaching, closing a folder in his hands before extending his right hand for Weir to shake.

"You are..?" he asked.

"Bernard Weir."

They shook hands and Speirs nodded in recognition.

"Yes, yes, I remember. You're here about- in fact, I need to ask you a few questions. Why don't we sit down, Mister Weir?" said the Auror. He turned about, looking at the various corridors leading out of the lobby.

"Of course." said Weir.

Speirs led the way down one of the corridors.

"I was told you were out of the country."

"Yes, traveling." replied Weir as they emerged into a large hall filled with cubicles. The Auror motioned toward an open door to one side.

"I'll go get the file, take a seat, please."

Weir sank into an office chair and exhaled. He drummed his fingers on the desktop, waiting.

Auror Speirs walked in and placed a folder on the desk, then easily took the seat opposite Weir. He leaned back in his chair and shook his head slightly at something.

"Not much to go on, I admit." he started, motioning for Weir to look at the documents.

"David A. Weir was found dead in his automobile, in his workplace parking lot."

Weir flipped through the report. There was a photograph of the crime scene, showing David in the driver seat of a coupe sports car. There was no blood, no broken glass, no signs of anything wrong at all. If Weir didn't know, he could've been looking at a picture of his brother dozing off in his brand new car just to 'enjoy that new car smell'.

"Cause of death was the killing curse. Take a look at the next photograph." said Speirs in a low voice.

Weir turned the page. He saw a broad shot of the parking lot, including the sky, where a ghostly skull was floating with a snake dangling from its mouth.

"Death Eaters, Mister Weir." commented Speirs.

Weir put the folder down and exhaled. He looked up at the Auror expectantly.

"Did you catch them?"

"No witnesses," Speirs said, shaking his head, "Nothing came up even through the muggle law enforcement channels. I'm sorry."

Weir shook his head in frustration.

"Most of our cases go unsolved now. We're not law enforcement anymore, to be frank, we're turning into an army." mused Speirs, "I wish I had more to tell you, but this is it. Muggles and wizards are dropping left and right lately, not to mention all the disappearances. I'm sorry, Mister Weir." he sighed.

"Do you have any particular enemies? Anyone specific you might have upset that... might take revenge on you like this, Mister Weir?"

Bernard breathed in slowly, trying to think. He's been gone four years now and back at Hogwarts he never gave anyone, including those demented anti-muggle Death Eater wannabes any reason to go after him. "No." he said, "Apart from being muggleborn, I guess."

_Wealthy muggleborn, you mean_, he thought to himself.

"It's just a little unusual for a single muggle to be targeted like this. Death Eaters don't leave a dark mark over just anyone, Mister Weir." he explained.

"Again, I'm sorry I couldn't be of any more help." said Speirs, pushing up from his chair and taking the folder.

"Thank you for your time, Auror."

_You can never run far enough_, thought Weir. Hell, he didn't even know he was running.


	2. To Kill a Demon

**Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and therefore do not own Harry Potter. I make no profit from this.**

Weir knew that what he was doing would eventually kill him. He spent all his time either sleeping in his hotel room, watching muggle television for hours on end or drinking in the pub beneath the hotel. How did a life of adventure and travel turn into this repetitive nightmare?

After leaving the Ministry of Magic, he visited his family and even in his imagination things did not go as bad as they did. His mother couldn't stop crying long enough to say more than two words while his father couldn't decide between being angry at Bernard for his four year disappearance and between being devastated at his son's death. The constant reminders of Bernard's dereliction of his duties as heir to the noble Weir family were ceaseless. He left Scotland as fast as he could and fell into a day long stupor in his hotel room.

Whatever mail he received, Weir ignored. He had no intention of talking to any of his old school friends. All he wanted was to break down properly. Eventually he would recover and leave the country again. Alaska maybe. He would recover, right?

Three days ago he received a letter from Headmaster Albus Dumbledore. He had no intention of corresponding with him either. But today something changed and he finally replied to Dumbledore's letter to meet at the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade. Weir just needed some air. There was a POP as the dishevelled wizard appeared on the main street of the village. He squinted, still hungover, and scanned his surroundings. Hogsmeade was almost completely empty. Most of the shops were closed and the only person in the street other than Weir was a bored looking Ministry patrolman. Weir walked toward the pub, still thinking about apparating back to London and forgetting all about Dumbledore.

The middle-aged barkeep gave Weir a look as he entered, probably trying to decide if he is a wizard or a muggle, considering his attire, which hasn't changed since he came to Britain. Weir approached the bar and offered a slight nod of acknowledgement.

"I'm to meet the Headmaster here at noon." he said.

"Upstairs, first door on the right."

Weir trudged up the stairs, thinking he could still leave and spend the rest of the day gambling his family's money away at cards and drinking fifteen year old whiskey. Good plan, but it was too late, he already knocked on the door.

A tall wizard wearing silver and gold robes with long white hair and an impressive beard opened the door. His eyes twinkled as he gazed at Weir and he afforded him a wrinkled smile. Albus Dumbledore hasn't changed one bit.

"Bernard Roland Weir, I am so, so sorry - I would have never wished for your return to Britain to be at such grim circumstances... Oh, my boy, I am so sorry." he spoke in a somber voice.

"Thank you, Headmaster, it's been... difficult."

They shook hands, the old wizard searching for something in the other's eyes for a long moment.

"Tea, crumpets, perhaps some sweets?" said Dumbledore, gesturing to a round wooden table.

They sat down and Weir watched as Dumbledore poured the tea. Weir was expecting some form of reprimand at his condition. Nothing. No comment on the dirty clothes, the overgrown beard, the unwashed hair, the heavy scent of alcohol or even the look of defeat in his eyes.

"Four years abroad - I can only guess at your experiences, and I am already envious." said Dumbledore, flashing a brief smile at Weir as he passed him a cup of hot tea.

"Best decision of my life, Headmaster." he paused, meeting Dumbledore's over-the-glasses gaze, "Your suggestion of starting in the Siberian plains has paid off."

"It wasn't my intention to disappear, but one thing led to another... China was really something. Nepal, oh, was unforgettable." he mused.

The old headmaster nodded, sipped his tea and said, "Yes, you were spotted following the earthquake in the Jiangsu province. Horrible reports."

"Been keeping tabs on me, Headmaster?"

"I couldn't help but worry. You were an excellent student, though I always feared your recklessness would lead you into trouble you could not get out of." said Dumbledore grimly.

"I managed." replied Weir.

Weir finally decided to test the tea. It was too sweet.

"I'd like to ask something of you, Bernard." the old man started.

"I know it is not a good time and you are likely very busy otherwise. Professor Rousseau has resigned abruptly and I am left without a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. You were top of your class, and always a responsible, clear-headed Prefect, Bernard, and I would like to extend this position to you now."

Albus Dumbledore kept talking, attempting to parry Weir's expected protest, saying, "I see in your eyes the wisdom of a traveled man, and trust me, your experience will make up for your age - I have looked over other potentials, but I could not bring myself to lay a sliver of trust onto any of them. Bernard, I ask this as a personal favor - just for a year, if only for a few months-"

Weir finally raised his hand to stop the Headmaster from talking. He gazed into his wrinkled blue eyes, sinking a little lower in his chair, thinking. He ran a hand through his hair, undoing it even further, and sighed.

"I need a few days."

Albus Dumbledore smiled in response. He thanked the young man profusely for considering his request. They discussed Weir's endeavors for twenty more minutes until parting ways. The Headmaster was almost positive he has found his new Professor.

X

Every window and every door was open in the Leaky Cauldron in a futile attempt to cool the place down. The drought still hasn't lifted and there was no breeze to speak of, not even a hot scorching wind. Sage could have thought of twenty other places she'd rather be right now. Unfortunately, she had no choice. Her little sister was starting her first year at Hogwarts in three weeks and their parents decided today would be a nice time for a celebration.

Sage's (valid) excuse of having work to do was shot down by her mother. Now the family of six was seated at a wide table in the middle of the tavern, waiting for a chocolate cake to arrive.

It's not that Sage didn't like spending time with her family, she did. But she had a lot on her plate lately. A young Hit Wizard in a time like this, she really had to prove herself. So much was going on that stopping to smell the roses wasn't something she could afford at the moment.

In an attempt to stifle her mother's nagging, Sage scoured her wardrobe for something more formal looking than her normal attire. Clean grey robes, a pair of new jeans and a burgundy blouse certainly did the trick and so far the only recipient of her mother's attention was her little sister Bligh.

Her father, John, was discussing quidditch with her two younger brothers, Kevin and Nils. Sage would occasionally comment about Hogwarts, keeping Bligh's curiosity satiated. It was a remarkably normal evening, she noted, when everything that's been happening lately was considered.

Sage wasn't paying much attention to the table when a bloke walked into the Leaky Cauldron from the muggle street. She had to do a double take. "Could it..?"

She wouldn't have recognized him if it weren't for his trademark squint and his famous flyaway hair. Otherwise, he was completely different from their days at Hogwarts. He was bearded, slouched and dusty-looking. Sage shuffled to her feet and intercepted the man before he reached the long wooden bar.

"Holy shit, Weir, is that you?" she asked incredulously.

He squinted at her, the gears in his head slowly turning and grinding for an answer.

"Sage?" he ventured.

"You look like hell." she said excitedly, looking him over more thoroughly.

"You always know what to say." he smirked. Sage thought that was a good sign, at least he could smirk.

"What are you doing here? I thought you were in Greece, or was it Cyprus? I forgot..." she questioned, speaking fast like she always did when excited.

"Long story." he replied, pursing his lips momentarily, "What about you?"

"My little sister is starting at Hogwarts, we're celebrating." she said, bobbing her head at the only full table in the tavern.

Weir nodded and attempted to flash a smile, which hadn't quite worked, prompting him to say, "Congratulations."

He continued to the bar and Sage followed briskly.

"What have you been up to since graduation?" he asked. Sage knew he was just being polite. Clearly he wasn't in a talkative mood, but all this talk about Hogwarts has reawakened the Hufflepuff still somewhere inside her.

"I'm a Hit Wizard now. Wicked, huh?" she grinned briefly, claiming the stool next to Weir at the bar.

"I'm impressed." he said, nodding several times. "Whiskey, double." he added to the barkeep.

"What about you? Now that you're back, have any plans?"

"I don't know. Dumbledore is trying... But I- I don't know if it's for me." he muttered.

It was probably the alcohol in his system, she guessed. Otherwise he would've maintained that famous Weir cool and collected air.

"What? Did he talk to old Barty Crouch about hiring you? I always thought you'd make a great career in law enforcement, Weir." she said, trying to stop herself from speaking too fast.

"No," he started, raising his glass of whiskey, then lowering it, "he needs someone to replace Professor Rousseau. I don't know what he's thinking coming to me."

"You're kidding!" she exclaimed and hit his arm. But his expression hasn't changed at all from that I'm-going-nowhere look.

"Going back to Hogwarts, man - I get chills just ahh- how aren't you excited? You'll get to eat in the Great Hall again, watch the firsties get lost on the moving staircases, terrorize the snogging couples throughout the castle's broom closets... Fuck, you'll get to watch the most competitive Quidditch on the planet." she rambled, managing to elicit a gruff chuckle from the bedraggled wizard. Sage grinned, nodding at him.

"And you'd get paid for it. Teaching is a piece of cake, you just read from the books and make 'em do homework. You have to take the job, Weir, otherwise this friendship is over." she said with a scowl.

Sage watched him take a drink of golden whiskey. He was staring ahead at a wall of liqueur bottles. She didn't know what was plaguing him, but it must be bad. Granted, they attended Hogwarts together, but he was in Gryffindor and she in Hufflepuff. They did share some classes and occasionally studied alongside each other, but she now realized that she didn't really know anything about Weir. She did remember him being on the Gryffindor quidditch team.

"Sage!" cried an irritated voice. Shit, mom has caught on to me, thought Sage.

"You want some cake?" she asked with a guilty face.

"I-I'm fine, I should probably go take a shower and get some shut-eye, actually." he said, shaking his head.

"I'll see you 'round."

Sage patted him on the shoulder and sneaked back to the table, wearing an apologetic face and saying, "Sorry, met an old school friend. You got me all nostalgic."

Weir paid for his whiskey, left it half unfinished and exited the pub.

He found himself wandering down a surprisingly deserted Diagon Alley. It was barely twenty past eight, which seemed an incredibly odd hour for the Alley to be so empty, too. Weir decided to cut through a back alley to get back into muggle London. His conversation with the cheery Sage rattled him a little, at least enough to a point that he needed a break from drinking and gambling.

Weir slipped into a dark side alley. It was dead silent now and he could hear nothing but his own footsteps on the old cobblestones. The alley twisted and Weir followed it. There was a voice up ahead, crying in pain, but he wasn't sure.

Emerging into a poorly lit intersection of back alleys, Weir stopped. There was a man down on his hands and knees, trying not to scream, and a black-hooded figure looming over him, wand extended. Neither noticed Weir yet.

The hooded person lifted the curse and stood a little straighter, shaking its head slowly. The man choked, coughing up blood. He tried to regain his breath, begging, "No, no, please."

A grating male voice answered, saying, "Do you require me to ask again? The Dark Lord will be very angry if you were to refuse. I daresay your business wont be the only thing broken to pieces."

"Please."

_"Crucio_!" the hooded man hissed, sending the kneeling man into a fit of pain.

Weir's wand slipped into his hand. His heart was beating uncontrollably fast, beating so loud he couldn't hear the man's screams anymore. He gripped the wand tightly, feeling rage, excitement and fear all at the same time.

There was a bright yellow light and both the hooded figure and the tortured man were flung at the wall with great force. Weir brandished his wand again, this time sending the hooded man up the wall, pinning him in place. He came up on him, his wand wielded like a knife.

"What the fuck!" shouted the hooded man, "Argh! Fuck!"

Weir was face to face with him now. Enraged and so afraid. He grabbed the man's hood and yanked it, almost tearing it off, coming to stare at a pock-marked, grizzled face. Pitch black eyes stared at him in confusion.

"Who are you? Speak!" demanded Weir.

The black-robed man struggled against Weir's magic without use. His expression changed from confusion to fear.

"You're dead, buddy. You hear me? W-when they find out you did this to me, you're dead. Dead." he rambled.

"Death Eater, huh? Is that right?" said Weir, his voice almost shaking with anger.

The pudgy man who was being tortured backed up against the opposite wall, watching with horror.

Weir took a step back and flicked his wand at the robed man. There was a BANG and shattering of brick and mortar, sending him flying into a side alley. Weir strode after him, blind with anger, fueled by fear.

The aging man was coughing violently, laying on his stomach in the dark alley. Weir kicked him over onto his back, knelt over him and grabbed the front of his black robes tightly.

"Answer me!" growled Weir, the tip of his wand pressing against where the man's heart would be.

"Yes," he chortled, "Fuck you- fucking Ministry-" he started coughing again.

Weir gripped the man's robes tighter. His knuckles were white, his blood boiled with anger. The tip of his wand drifted upwards to the Death Eater's throat.

"_Diffindo_." muttered Weir.

A precise, red cut appeared across the man's throat and almost instantly blood poured out. He stared at Weir with a look of surprise and horror, choking on his own blood. Weir couldn't help but stare back, his heart beating faster and louder than it ever has.

The Death Eater's robes were turned to blood red quickly. His eyes stared ahead blankly. Weir let go of him and stood up, swaying as a sliver of realization hit him. He killed him. No, he murdered him.

There was a noise from behind him. The other man must've finally gotten to his feet and fled. Weir was shaking. He raised his wand and turned on the spot, concentrating on his hotel room. There was a soft POP and he disappeared.

Stumbling in the dark, Weir walked into the bathroom and flipped the light switch, grimacing at the brightness. He stared at the mirror, breathing hard. There was blood and sweat over his t-shirt and jeans and they clung to his skin uncomfortably. In a panicked frenzy, he tore his clothes off, flung them in a corner and "_scourgified_" the pile a few times.

Weir stepped under the shower and turned the water on. Blood and grime washed off his body and swirled into the gutter. He didn't bother to use soap. It was hard for him to stand, so he slid down the wall and sat down. He held his head in his hands, trying not to throw up.

X

Martin Speirs and Grant Morrison were striding down a tight alleyway. Their faces were unshaven and they both sported great bed hair. Morrison was sipping black coffee from a disposable cup as they walked in silence. Speirs knew that despite Morrison's many years as a Auror he still couldn't stand waking up at five-thirty in the morning.

The alleyway merged with another and the two brown-coated wizards stopped. There was plaster, dust and blood covering the cobblestone floor and further up ahead a bloody, unmoving body in black robes. Three ministry patrolmen were standing around, looking lost, supposedly minding the crime scene.

"Did you touch anything?" asked Morrison in a hoarse morning voice.

"No, Sir." sputtered a young, meek-looking wizard.

"Do your thing, Speirs." muttered Morrison, and Speirs crouched down in the middle of the intersection and peered at the scene closely. Morrison appraised the patrolmen and approached the one who seemed least likely to choke.

"Who reported this in? Any witnesses?" asked Morrison.

"We found it like this half an hour ago at shift change, Sir." replied a square-jawed wizard, shaking his head at  
the end.

"Got a wand here." muttered Speirs, uncovering a long wooden wand in a pile of dust and shattered brick.

"Good, we can identify its owner." muttered Morrison.

Morrison took a long drink from his cup and walked over the debris to where the body lay. He crouched the same way Speirs had and began examining the dead man. The patrolmen kept their distance, alternating between watching Morrison, Speirs and the alleyways.

Speirs shifted around some of the dirt with his free hand. He shook his hands, stood up and followed Morrison.

"Cause of death- massive bleeding caused by a cutting spell applied to the carotid artery." said Morrison, glancing up at Speirs for a moment and giving him a bob of the head, who proceeded to crouch down and confirm.

Speirs took the dead man's left hand and unrolled the sleeve carefully. He revealed a snake and skull tattoo, then dropped the dead forearm and shook his head in disgust.

"Dead Death Eater." confirmed Morrison grimly.

There was a wand in Speirs' hand now. He stood up and waved it slowly, at the walls, the floor and the dead body. Morrison stepped over the body rigidly and joined on of the patrolmen in the alley. He lit a cigarette with an old metal lighter and watched the young Auror.

Several minutes later Morrison noticed Speirs pocket his wand and asked, "Anything?"

"Someone disapparated here. We'll need the rune-geeks for this." he replied.

Morrison gave a humorless chuckle.

"No way. They're still working on the ministry break-in."

Speirs spread his hands, saying, "Well, what do you think happened here?"

Morrison dropped what was left of his cigarette, stomped on it with a boot and looked down the alley at the destroyed intersection.

"I think whoever this is bit off more than he could chew." he said, "It's not some kind of internal struggle - they use the killing curse when they execute their own. Look at the mess. And a cutting spell? The assailant is an amateur, but he clearly wanted this guy dead."

Two more ministry workers appeared and started taking photographs of the crime scene. The Aurors said their greetings and stepped away.

"Hey, bag the body and deliver it to Saint Mungo's, eh? And clean up." said Morrison, raising his cup of coffee. One of the patrolmen nodded with a "Yes, Sir." and the two Aurors left the scene.

"We've got more important work right now, Speirs. A dead Death Eater is just fine, s'far as I'm concerned."

Speirs couldn't help but agree.

"Hey, you go ahead, Morrison, I want to take some time and look around. Might get lucky with a witness."

"Whatever." said Morrison hoarsely.

X

"I have to confess. I have to go to the Ministry and tell them everything."

Weir was clutching the sides of a dirty sink, staring at his disheveled, demented reflection in the mirror. It was past dawn now and he was talking to himself for half an hour. He didn't have any other options, did he? No, no, he has to come clean. Maybe he can get off easy on a technicality or something - he did save a man's life, probably.

Yes, he had to go to the Ministry.

Picking from a pile on his bedroom floor, Weir dressed in a pair of discarded jeans and a faded t-shirt. The floo, he'd have to use the floo. Leaky Cauldron, closest one, he thought.

London was just waking up. Trashmen in reflective orange vests were busy cleaning up after last night's parties. Weir walked briskly towards the wizarding pub.

The Leaky Cauldron was empty except for a young woman levitating utensils from inside the kitchen into a wooden crate by the door. Weir closed the door behind him gingerly.

"Good morning." he said.

"Good morning."

"May I use the floo?"

"Go right ahead." she replied, vanishing into the kitchen.

Weir made a beeline to the fireplace, running a hand through his unkempt hair absently.

The back door opened with a creak and a dark-haired man in a brown coat walked in. _Speirs?_ thought Weir.

The two wizards locked eyes, both looking somewhat lost, before dropping a slight nod each.

"Auror Speirs." said Weir in greeting.

"Mister Weir, I hope you are well."

"Still coping." he replied, raking a hand in his hair again.

Speirs noticed his hastily tied boots, old jeans and shirt, wild look in his eyes and finally averted his gaze.

"Flooing home after a night of hard drinking, I know the feeling." said Speirs in a tired voice.

"I too feel like the shit is getting too deep sometimes." he added, shaking his head with a gruff chuckle.

"Night shift?" asked Weir.

"Someone offed a Death Eater last night." said Speirs, "Pretty cut and dry scene, and we don't have the manpower nor the willpower to investigate further."

They were standing closer now. Speirs shook his head and looked toward the kitchen at a clanging noise.

"Morrison almost looked happy enough to reward the killer with a medal." he said in a low voice.

"You have a good day, Weir." added Speirs. The Auror stepped toward the fireplace, grabbed a handful of powder and exclaimed "_Ministry of Magic_!".

Weir was rooted to the spot. Maybe he didn't have to confess his crime. He turned and strode out of the pub briskly, being careful not to look back.

Speirs was right. The shit was indeed getting too deep. Ever since he got his letter from Hogwarts he was the black sheep of the family._ Magic, really?_ said his parents. Eleven years have passed and he slowly drifted apart from them. That is, until his brother was murdered and he suddenly felt the pull of blood back home. His life of adventure was broken like a cheap illusion.

He killed a Death Eater. _This is war_, isn't that what Reuel Marsh said? If he had to pick a side it would be the one that didn't murder his brother. Oh god, he felt sick again. Weir bent over, clutching his knees. A man in an orange vest drove by in a utility truck, giving Weir a scowling look.

Weir felt sick. Sick at everything that's been happening lately; the drinking, the gambling, even the television. He knew he had to force a change, otherwise he'd end his days this way. It had to be something drastic. Something that would make him behave like a human being again.

Dumbledore. Yes, if Weir was crazy enough to embark on a no-deadline journey around the world at eighteen years old, he could definitely take a position of Defense Against the Dark Arts at twenty-two. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The nausea faded away.

He wandered back to his hotel room, making a mental to-do list. Write to Headmaster Dumbledore, shave, scrub the scent of alcohol from his hair and definitely buy some clothes. This is beyond crazy, he thought. But it was too late, he was convinced.


End file.
